A Matter of Ducks and Geese
by apprentice wordsmith
Summary: A very young Pippin has a traumatic encounter with geese, and learns to overcome his fear. Rated for moderate violence, because geese are not very nice to little hobbit lads.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

How could one little lad move so fast? That was all Eglantine Took could think of as she glanced around the kitchen, even looking in the apple barrel to be sure Pippin wasn't hiding from her and snacking at the same time. He was tiny, yet he could be out of sight in an instant. She'd never seen a child so likely to get into mischief, and she'd already raised three daughters.

But now her son had disappeared. She'd only taken her eyes off him for a moment; she was already behind with her chores and there would be nothing in the house for elevenses if she didn't hurry up. A beef pie would do nicely, but she had to move quickly before the clay oven cooled too much from her bread baking. The housemaid was far too occupied with her own cleaning, and Pippin's sisters were at the Bolgers' neighboring farm for their lessons, so there was no one to watch the youngest Took while she worked.

 _Now, Pip, I want to you stay in the kitchen so I can see you_ , she'd said, careful to make eye contact with her son as she said it. Sometimes Pippin would act like he was listening, even when he was distracted by something else; Eglantine often had to take him by the shoulders and turn him to face her while she spoke to him.

She thought he'd heard her this time. He'd stayed close by and chattered contentedly as she chopped meat and vegetables, rolled out pie crust, and made gravy, but had gone silent at some point when she was assembling the pie. She'd thought nothing of it until she put the pie in the oven then turned around only to find the kitchen empty.

She darted out of the kitchen, disturbed by the silence and determined to find her wayward child before he caused any major destruction. She'd long ago given up keeping Pippin from minor mischief.

"Tansy, have you seen Pippin?" she asked as she peeked in the drawing room.

"No, Mistress, not since second breakfast," the little housemaid answered earnestly. "Is he missing?"

"I was hoping he'd only wandered away from the kitchen, but I'm not sure," Eglantine said ruefully. "I'm going to search in the garden. Keep an eye on the oven, will you, and call for me if you see him."

"Yes, Mistress," Tansy said, and went back to cleaning the fireplace as Eglantine went outside.

Pippin was allowed out in the garden without supervision, though he'd been given strict instructions not to pull up any plants or eat anything without asking. The garden was bordered by a low wall, so it was separate from the farmyard and therefore safe.

But he wasn't in the garden. Eglantine frowned and called his name, then went into the farmyard, hoping her son was merely distracted by pretty flowers or a brightly colored bug and hadn't taken it in his head to play with the bull or wallow with the pigs.

She trotted along the barn, looking into each open bay as she passed. There was no sign of Pippin. By the time she reached the last bay, her heart was pounding in time with her footsteps on the flagstones.

A flash of white halfway across the field caught her eye as she rounded the corner. One of the geese was hissing at something she couldn't see, its wings spread wide and neck arched in its agitation.

Eglantine might have gone by- that particular goose was even more hostile than most of its kind, and made a habit of persecuting chickens, squirrels, even mice- but a shriek stopped her in her tracks.

The goose dove at its victim, and Eglantine went after it. Because the scream had come from Pippin.

He'd been hidden from her sight by the goose's wings as he ran from the bird, and she assumed he'd been looking at the little gaggle of goslings that were scurrying away from the scene. She didn't care. Something was attacking her baby. That was the only thing that mattered.

She'd never run so fast in her life, flying over the grass like she had wings. The goose loomed larger and larger in her sight, all brilliant white wings and scrambling orange feet against the green of the field as it caught up with her screaming son.

Eglantine had never subdued an attacking goose. She had no idea how to do it, so she seized the bird's neck and threw it aside, as far away from Pippin as she could manage. It wasn't much, and the effort overbalanced her- she'd forgotten how heavy an adult goose could be. She fell to her knees in a tangle of skirts then scrambled back to her feet, scooping Pippin up as she did.

He kicked at her in his panic but Eglantine couldn't soothe him, because the goose was also intent on defending its babies. It launched itself at her, hissing and beating at her with its enormous wings. She yelled. Pippin screamed.

The noise didn't seem to bother the goose, so Eglantine did the next best thing. She ran, clutching her baby to her breast as she tore through the barnyard and into the house. She thought the goose might have followed her about halfway before it lost interest, but she was too concerned with her escape to notice.

Tansy came running at the noise and nearly crashed into them as Eglantine burst through the door. "Mistress, what's happening?" she cried, her eyes wide with fear as she bent to pick up the dust pan she'd dropped.

"One of the geese attacked Pippin," Eglantine said over Pippin's shoulder once she had her breath back. Her son clung to her like he would never let go, legs around her waist, arms twined about her neck, coppery head buried in the crook of her neck. He shivered with each sobbing breath. She rubbed his back gently and tried to calm him. "It's all right, darling," she whispered. "Mama's here. You're safe. You're safe." He whimpered when she patted the right side of his back and she hastily moved her hand. "Tansy, fetch Mistress Lavender," she said to the maid. "I want a healer to look at Pippin. And send someone to fetch Paladin. He's in the east field with the cattle. Hurry up," she said when the maid looked reluctant.

"The goose is still out there, Mistress," Tansy said, shrinking away from the door as if she expected a murderous goose to come through it at any moment.

"Then go out the back," Eglantine snapped, wanting to yell but knowing it would upset Pippin even more.

Tansy must have heard the simmering fury in her voice, because she darted away without further protest. Eglantine sighed in mingled exasperation and relief, and turned her attention the crying child in her arms.

oOoOo

A/N: Poor Pippin. I'm sorry I torture my characters like this. I swear; they make me do it. I'll try not to make you wait too long for the next chapter.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note that I forgot to put in the last chapter: This story takes place before Paladin becomes Thain, which is why Eglantine is doing most of her own housekeeping and Paladin is inspecting the cattle instead of getting servants to do those tasks for them. I'm also assuming that they do not yet live at the Great Smials, because who would want to spend more time around Laila Clayhanger Took than they had to?

oOoOo

"Go on, Daisy, get out of the way," Paladin said firmly, slapping the boss cow on her red and white spotted rump. Daisy obligingly moved over. "Good girl." Inspecting the cows for injury or illness was a daily task when they were pastured up on the downs. He didn't worry about wolves or thieves- after all, they were still in the Shire- but accidents could happen and for his own peace of mind, Paladin continued to make the trek each day.

He nudged his way through the herd, pushing and elbowing the good-natured beasts aside as he inspected each one, and taking care not to startle the young ones that hadn't yet learned he meant no harm.

The little herd was fine form, save for the black bull calf, which had a scrape on its shoulder. A more rambunctious animal Paladin had rarely seen, and he assumed the calf had bumped into a branch or rolled on a rock without realizing it.

He cleaned the scrape and rubbed a bit of salve into the skin to keep the flies away. The calf eyed him suspiciously then licked him with its sandpapery tongue. Paladin laughed. "Silly lad," he said as he closed the bottle of salve. "Does my shirt taste good?"

The calf didn't respond, of course, and Paladin was carefully piling his kit into the little pack he carried when one of the farm hands called out to him from across the field. "Master Paladin!"

He wound his way out of the herd, slowly at first, then with increasing urgency when the lad ran up to him instead of waiting at the gate. "What is it, Robin?" he asked.

"Mistress wants you at the house," Robin said breathlessly. "She sent Tansy for a healer. I think something's wrong with Master Pippin."

There was no better way to freeze Paladin in his tracks. Something was wrong with Pippin. His little lad, so fragile at birth and so determined to live. His bright boy, a ray of sunlight in their lives beyond even the most precious of hobbit children.

"What happened?" he demanded in a voice most unlike his own as he started for the gate, beckoning Robin along with him.

Robin recoiled from the harsh tone but followed. "I don't know, sir. Tansy told me as she was running for the healer. I couldn't get anything more out of her, she was weeping and barely stopped in the lane long enough to tell me that you were wanted at the house."

That was nearly as bad as no information at all, and Paladin's swift walk became a run. The pack bumped against his shoulder as he tore over the field and down the lane to the house.

He burst through the back door at the exact moment the healer was coming in the front. "Whoa, there!" he cried as he skidded to a halt, but he wasn't fast enough and crashed headlong into her, sending her satchel flying. There was a flurry of surprised exclamations and scrambling that ended up with Mistress Lavender sitting down hard on the stone floor and Paladin disentangling himself from the ruins of that ugly end table that Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had thought was an appropriate wedding gift.

"Sorry about that, Mistress Lavender," he said, shucking off the remains of the table and wincing when his now-squashed big toe protested. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Eglantine peer into the hallway and slap her hand to her forehead. She looked like she might laugh or cry, Paladin wasn't sure which, and he was too occupied with helping Mistress Lavender to her feet to think about it.

"Are you all right?" he asked as he picked up the healer's satchel and handed it to her.

"Right as rain," she said stoutly. "Let's see what your lad's gotten himself into this time."

"Yes, please," he said. "Tina- what happened?" he asked his wife, but Eglantine had already disappeared down the corridor, presumably to check on Pippin. Paladin followed.

Pippin lay on his bed, one little fist curled around a corner of his pillow. Eglantine had removed his shirt and a bruise was already forming in the heart of an angry red mark on his back. An invisible fist clenched around Paladin's heart at the sight of his son's tearstained face. "Hello, darling," he said quietly, not wanting to upset the child even more. "Did you get yourself into a scrape?" He sat down on the edge of the bed and gently rested his hand in Pippin's coppery hair.

"I hurt, Papa," Pippin said plaintively. His hand came up to touch Paladin's.

"I know, darling, but the healer's here. She'll make you all better," he said, because what else could he say when his baby was hurting?

"That's right, Master Pippin. You'll be running all over the place in no time," Mistress Lavender interjected, using what Paladin thought of as her 'professional' voice, soothing but matter-of-fact at the same time. He took his cue and stood up, allowing the healer space to examine her patient.

While Mistress Lavender worked her magic on Pippin, Paladin drew Eglantine into a quiet corner of the room. "What happened?" he asked again.

"One of the geese attacked him," Eglantine said in a low voice. "The one that has goslings. I think he got too close to them and she didn't like that."

"Did you see it?"

She nodded. "I ran after them and picked up Pippin. That- thing- chased us almost all the way back to the house. I want you to kill it," she said. Tears stood in her eyes but her mouth was set in grim lines.

"In a couple of weeks, when the goslings can fend for themselves," he promised.

"No. Today. Tomorrow at the latest."

Those goslings might mean the difference between pinching pennies until they cried, and a comfortable winter with plenty of food on the table. Paladin wasn't stupid enough to say that, though. "We'll talk about it later," he said. "For now, let's concentrate on Pippin."

As it turned out, Pippin had a broken- or possibly only cracked, Mistress Lavender couldn't be sure- rib from where the goose had hammered him with her beak. And of course he would have some spectacular bruises from the attack. Mistress Lavender prepared a salve of arnica and yarrow, then instructed Eglantine on the proper strength of willow bark tea needed to dull the pain.

"I know you don't want him to feel any pain at all," Mistress Lavender said. "But if the ribs are broken, he could do worse damage by running about. So give him enough that he can sleep at night and isn't in agony during the day, but not so much that he thinks he's invincible."

"Don't they all think they're invincible when they're young?" Paladin said dryly. Eglantine glared at him.

"I understand," she said to Mistress Lavender. "I'll keep him as still as I can."

"I'll check on him tomorrow," Mistress Lavender said as she packed away her things. "Send for me if he's feverish or complains of any pain that I didn't find. He got off lightly, as far as I can tell, but sometimes injuries don't reveal themselves immediately."

She left shortly after that ominous pronouncement, and Paladin resigned himself to a long afternoon of soothing his son, wondering what he was going to say to his daughters when they returned home, and keeping Eglantine from attempting to slaughter the offending goose with her own two hands. It would take a braver hobbit than he to stand in front of his wife once she'd found the axe.

After a long and very quiet argument- so as not to upset Pippin as he slept in the next room- they agreed to compromise with regards to the goose. Paladin killed it a week later, long before Pippin was feeling well enough to go anywhere near the barnyard even if he wanted to.

But that wasn't the end of it. Pippin had become almost- dare Paladin say it?- timid. He talked just as much as ever, and ate more than any reasonable hobbit lad should be able to consume, but he'd developed a fear of the livestock that led to heartbreaking bouts of tears every time anyone suggested he play outside the walled garden.

Paladin tried to be patient, and luckily he was so busy with the farm that he wasn't near the house for the worst moments. But if it bothered him to see his son afraid of his own shadow, it bothered Eglantine even worse, enough to make them argue, which they did only rarely.

"Tina, don't worry about it," he said for the hundredth time, about a month after the incident, even though both of them could recite the argument by heart and usually ended up agreeing. "The more you fuss, the more Pippin thinks something's wrong, and the more afraid he becomes. If you let him play alone, let him wander around the barnyard, and don't say anything, he won't think there's anything to fear and this problem with the geese will go away on its own."

"I know, I know," Eglantine said distractedly, wringing her hands and plucking at her apron. "It's hard to see him afraid of anything. He wasn't, before this happened."

"It's no bad thing for him to learn respect for the animals. I don't like to see him afraid, either, but I'd rather he learned a bit of caution now, when he's small, than to learn it later, when he's big enough to get into real trouble and might be badly hurt."

"He's a child," Eglantine argued, as he expected. "He has years and years to learn that the world isn't completely safe."

"I know. But they grow fast. He'll be coming of age before you realize it," he said, half-teasing because he didn't like to see his wife look so grim.

Eglantine smiled faintly. "I'll try not to smother him with hugs before then."

"You could give some of them to me," he hinted. "I'm sure you have plenty to go around." She laughed and swatted playfully at him.

As he'd hoped, Eglantine dropped the subject and he saw that she was less obviously attentive to Pippin in the days that followed. Not that she would ever neglect him, but now she watched him in such a way that he didn't notice it.

It was partly successful. As the summer wore on, Pippin regained most of his confidence and could be found wandering the nearby hedgerows and fields, nibbling on blackberries, watching a nest of baby bunnies under the blackthorn tree, and playing in the shallow stream. But he wouldn't go near any of the livestock, not even to touch the fluffy day-old chick Paladin held out to him one day shortly before Midsummer. The instinctive hesitation in his son's green eyes was a look Paladin would never forget, and when Pippin whispered, "Not s'posed to touch the babies," he thought his heart would break.

"It's all right, Pip," he managed to say. "You won't hurt him, and his mama is safe in her cage." But Pippin just shook his head, looking at the little peeping fluff ball in Paladin's cupped hands but making no move to touch it.

And there was nothing anyone could do to persuade the child that it was safe.

End chapter.

Author's Note: Well done, ladies and gentlemen- you made it to the end of the second chapter! I'll assume that means you like the story, and if I'm right and you want more like it, you should head on over to my profile for more fanfiction, of course, and for information about purchasing my original fiction, now available on Amazon.


	3. Chapter 3

Here you go! Sorry for the delay; real life intrudes at the weirdest times.

A Matter of Ducks and Geese

Chapter Three

Hobbiton, next spring:

"Come inside, Pippin," Frodo called from the doorway. "It's time for lunch."

Attracted by the mention of food, Pippin instantly came away from the garden where he'd been playing. "Can we eat outside?" he asked. "I don't want to go in."

Frodo thought about it for a moment. It was a beautiful spring day, sunny but not too hot. And Pippin was only visiting for a few days, so Frodo was determined to have as many small and safe adventures as possible. Nothing too strenuous, of course. Bilbo would be disappointed if Frodo took his little cousin camping in the marsh or pilfered strawberries from the neighboring farms. "I think we can manage to eat outside," he said. "How would you like to pack a picnic and go down to Bywater Pond? We can eat there."

"Can we have cake?"

He smiled. "I think we can find some cake, yes."

Half an hour later saw them walking down the road to the pond, laden with picnicking supplies. Well, Frodo was laden with a pack containing food, drink, and a waterproof cloth to sit on; Pippin's contribution to the picnic was to open gates and point out every interesting sight that crossed his view. A colorful butterfly, nodding flowers, even the sight of Hamfast Gamgee working in his garden, all were a delight to a young and friendly child.

The pond wasn't far away, and Pippin squealed when they rounded the bend and caught a first glimpse of the shimmering water. It must have looked like a vast and dazzling sea to someone so small. Frodo frowned briefly, wishing he'd remembered to pack towels. They might have gone swimming after food and the obligatory nap.

Perhaps another time. And the pond wasn't going unused. A little flock of yellow ducklings was in and out of the water, searching for food. The mother duck was nearby, though not easily seen among the weeds because of her drab brown color. Frodo didn't see the drake; perhaps he was taking a rest from helping mind his offspring.

They were nearly to the grassy bank that was the picnicking spot when Pippin spotted their company and instantly fell silent and tugged at Frodo's breeches so he had to stop walking.

"Don't want to see the geese," Pippin whispered, pressing his face into Frodo's leg. "Geese are mean."

"We don't have to see them if you don't want to," Frodo said as he put an arm around his cousin's shoulders, "but these are ducks, not geese. They're much nicer than those nasty geese that hurt you."

"They're nice?" Pippin asked, uncertain what to make of waterfowl that _didn't_ attack little hobbit lads.

"As long as we don't scare them, they'll leave us alone. Geese are very territorial; that means they they'll attack anyone who comes too close to their nests or their babies. But most ducks are afraid of hobbits. If we go too close too fast, they'll swim away until they're not scared anymore."

Pippin didn't quite let go of Frodo's leg, but he released his grip enough to look up at him. "I don't want to scare the ducks," he said mournfully.

"Then let's sit here and eat our picnic, and we'll watch the ducks."

That was an acceptable compromise, and they spread a cloth on the ground and unpacked the hamper without any further trouble aside from Pippin nearly putting his hand in the cake when he sat down.

They were halfway through pastries stuffed with chicken and herbs, and Pippin was beginning to eye the cake covetously, when Frodo became aware that they had an audience. The ducklings had overcome their fear and gone back to searching for bugs near the water's edge. Since neither hobbit was moving much, the ducklings had wandered and were now only a few yards away from the picnic, supervised by the wary eye of their mother. Frodo smiled and didn't say anything. Pippin would notice their company soon enough.

A few minutes later, he heard, "Look, Frodo."

"I see them," he whispered back. "Just stay very still, and they might come close enough for you to touch."

"What about the mama duck?"

He glanced aside, careful not to turn his head and frighten the ducklings. The mother duck was a little further away, making her own meal of water plants and occasionally lifting her head to see her babies. "She doesn't seem worried. If she thought the babies were getting too close, she'd call to them and they'd run away from us."

"Oh." There was a pause. "What do ducks talk about?"

Frodo pretended to think, carefully not looking at Pippin's hand, where a tiny duck was only a few inches away. "Well, I'm not sure, but I think they talk about the same things as hobbits. Good food, family, the bright sunshine, how pretty the flowers are, that sort of thing."

A few minutes passed, and Pippin's patience was starting to wear thin. He sighed and wiggled, and the hand not near the duckling kept reaching for more strawberries. Frodo waited, smiling when Pippin picked up the smallest strawberry and ever so slowly transferred it to his other hand. The duckling peeped worriedly, but the temptation was too much. It plucked the berry out of Pippin's hand and darted away, followed by a crowd of madly peeping duck siblings. Frodo's laughter rang in counterpoint to Pippin's giggles as the ducklings fought over the strawberry, snatching it from each other and running off, only to have the treat stolen in turn.

The mother duck quacked, and if a duck could look skeptically amused, this one did. Frodo imagined she was scolding her babies, but to no avail. The little flock darted this way and that, ignoring their anxious mama.

By the time the battle for the strawberry was over, all four ducklings were orangey pink from the juice and the hobbits were rolling on the ground laughing. The mother duck finally rounded up her babies and nudged them into the water. As they swam away, she ruffled her tail feathers, looking rather like an indignant lass flouncing away after an argument.

The sight sent Frodo into another paroxysm of mirth, and it was a few minutes before they wiped the tears from their eyes and sat up.

"What do you say to a piece of that cake?" he asked.

"Yes, please," Pippin said around a giggle, so Frodo cut them each a slice.

They finished their picnic and packed up a little more rapidly than Frodo had planned; dark gray clouds were gathering in the east and he didn't want to be caught outside in a thunderstorm. That sort of thing was best experienced indoors with a book of poetry and a snack at his elbow. And a giggly toddler well supplied with his own entertainments, of course.

As they walked home, Frodo said, "What did you think of the ducks?"

Pippin shrugged but he was smiling. "They're cute and fuzzy. And they make funny noises."

"Were they nice?"

"Yes."

"Not too scary?"

"No."

"Good. I'd hoped you'd like them."

"I did." Pippin's hand crept into his, and Frodo smiled.

oOoOoOo

Minas Tirith, years later:

"You hadn't completely gotten over your fear, dearest. I remember when we were riding the ponies a few years later and Farmer Cotton's geese popped out from behind the hedge. You jumped higher than the pony!" Frodo said to general laughter.

Pippin smiled sheepishly. "They startled me. And it was a long time ago. I've faced down scarier things since then."

"Yes, you have," Frodo said, more quietly.

Pippin winced. They had all faced greater dangers than they'd ever imagined, Frodo most of all. But in the way of hobbits, they talked around those dangers, sharing silly stories to remind themselves of more innocent times. It was much easier to talk of being frightened by geese than of being squashed by a troll or tortured by servants of Sauron.

Merry, wonderful Merry, leaned over and bumped Pippin's shoulder with his. Pippin smiled at him, then, in a fit of mischief, said, "Of course, I'm not the only one with silly fears. Remember when Merry absolutely refused to climb trees for a few weeks?"

"You're not really going to tell that story?" Merry demanded, which made everyone laugh. Pippin grinned his best evil grin, which merely made him look ridiculous. Hobbits weren't meant to have evil grins.

"Tell which story?" Legolas's bright voice drifted through the open doorway, shortly followed by the Elf himself. He had been sitting with them, then slipped out shortly before Frodo began telling embarrassing stories about Pippin. Now he was back, and by the delicious smell wafting out from the basket in his hand, he'd brought food.

"Merry was once afraid of trees," Pippin explained sunnily.

"So would you be, if you'd grown up on the edge of the Old Forest," Merry maintained.

"This was well before you'd been in the Old Forest," Pippin argued. "Here, Legolas, listen to this…"

Rain began to patter the windows as he told the story, but no one minded. They were too occupied with food, friends, and good entertainment to notice anything outside the room.

The End.

A/N: Okay, that wasn't too bad, was it? I'm glad you made it to the end.


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